No doubt, it’s been a full year. We’ve had a lot of laughs, albeit mostly at YouTube videos of obese people falling down stairs or off of trampolines. We’ve shed our share of tears, be they in the form of drunken heart-to-hearts with that kid you buy drugs from or just that one Sunday you sobbed through Airbud. I’ve witnessed your finest hours and I’ve witnessed you at your most embarrassing, regrettable, and repressible times. Times that may have involved your roommate unexpectedly bursting into the room and inquiring as to why you aren’t wearing pants, why you have an unopened textbook on your lap, and why your computer is open to webcam of a forty-five-year-old mom eating a hotdog. Come one, Roommate, don’t ask questions that prolong the awkwardness, just connect the dots!

I’ll admit freely now that when you first moved in late August that I was not thrilled with how you chose to decorate me. The cliché posters of Bob Marley, Jimi Hendrix, and The Beatles screamed a desire to overly publicize you apparently refined taste in music and you obvious familiarity with marijuana. However, what I truly found abhorrent were the pictures of your fugly, underachieving high school friends. I know you idiots anointed yourselves “The Crew,” or “Da Boys,” or “The Buttercream Gang,” or something equally dumb I didn’t bother to learn, but I was delighted when midyear their photos were replaced with ones of college friends.

I’m sorry if I seem like an old curmudgeon; I’ve just always found it amusing how, like clockwork, high school friends become replaced with college ones in less than a year. I know, you swore to The Buttercream Boys that’d you’d be friends forever, so it can be harsh when you realize that no amount of Twittering, SpankChatting, InstaPoking, or whatever other homoerotic cyber business you do can keep your cream crew together forever.

You’re adjusted well though. You bonded with other males through your shared interests of alcohol, team sports, and vagina and you were quite successful in wooing several female companions to your room under the pretense of “watching a movie.” It was a textbook charade that I’ve seen employed time after time. Both parties know they were merely feigning an interest in watching Good Burger, or Slingblade, or whatever and were simply biding their time until one of you made a move, be it in the form of a kiss, a grope, or you “accidentally” having your penis fall out of your pajama pants.

Now, it wasn’t all gumdrops and miniskirts with you the whole year. There was that uncomfortable phase when you rediscovered your love for Sugarcult for an embarrassing fortnight. There was the day you posted a Facebook status and spent the next forty-five minutes perpetually refreshing the page, narcissistically yearning for someone to toss you even a pity “like.” That was painful to watch, but not as much as the dry streak you went through around November. Truly a streak as impressive as it was sad; you harnessing your natural ability to put up big numbers yet never setting major records and doing it all without any performance-enhancing drugs—yes, you truly embodied the Jim Thome of masturbating.

You kept the surprises coming all year; even after your last final you blamed failing your history exam on “anti-Semitism.” Perhaps it was anti-Semitism, but I’ve never witnessed you do anything remotely Jewish and it seemed like you were just throwing around a term you didn’t quite know the meaning of as a scapegoat. However, I do distinctly remember the night before the exam you didn’t study, you participated in a competition called “Fifth Race,” and you stayed up until five in the morning trying to persuade Hot Nikki from downstairs to play a game called “Just the Tip.” The game is the game, and, plus, you can always retake “Introduction to Misunderstood Germans” next semester.

Regardless, you will be missed; I’ll still have the many stories and many stains from you to remember you by though.